The product of this evening...
Some critique is welcome...I think its interesting
Her echo remained long after she left. It wove through the air like perfume. At first a seductive tinkle, it wrapped around you, so slight you hardly noticed. But it followed you. Eventually, it became a sharp jangle. It built to a harsher, biting sound. Soon it morphed into a discordant painful clash. So slight it was hardly noticeable yet so pervasive it was impossible to ignore.
She wasn’t particularly distinctive within the slam and glam world of concrete trees and cement rivers. She seemed merely a short girl, with bleach blond hair and glamorous eyes. In fact, she was much shorter than she appeared, with deep brunette hair, but the eyes were her own. They were never the same color, shifting like pools of iridescent mercury. When she cried, they were twin sauces of gin that softened the harsh edges of the world. When she was angry, they flashed like shards of jasper. When she used to smile, they had held the summer sky. Today they were merely reflecting the deep amber of the beer that she grasped tightly.
Manhattan’s streets were here temple she was their priestess. She paid homage to the gods and goddesses, the women in their leather and lace, the men in their boots and tattoos, the artists, the angry young men screaming and diving off the stage, the local drunks and general riffraff. She drifted around, chain smoking and spitting. She wore tight skirts and mammoth boots, with huge sunglasses that hid the bruises within her eyes. She seemed almost ethereal, lost in a haze of silk and glitter and smoke.
It seemed the only thing that was constant were the drugs. The first time he asked her to smoke opium, she was entranced by the exotic name. She laughed later, when she realized what it was. Remembering how, before, they used to sneak off and smoke poppies too. She loved the dreams. She loved how the smoke turned to knives in her chest, how it sliced through her mind, creating twisted images, nightmares that thrilled her. But he would never hold her hand, like they used to, before. See it was different here. Before drugs were different. She she and her parents used to pass joints around the kitchen table, letting the tales spin out with the smoke. Now she didn’t feel as if she was breathing out stories, but that she was breathing out herself with every puff of smoke.
Harper wandered, clutching her cigarette so tightly that her knuckles were white. Always the gentle bells, a cacophonous din slamming in her brain. Sometimes she imagined unclasping the silver chain around her ankle, imagined letting the chain fall off onto to the sidewalk and leaving it there, all of its binding and sealing magic to seep away, away from her.
~*~
Harper was fascinated by wings. Her room was painted with them, birds and butterflies and dragonflies and even airplanes. Mobiles floated in the dust, floated in the thick blue cloud of smoke that constantly hovered. A man lay on the mattress that lay on the carpet that lay on the cold tile. He was pure white. His skin seemed porcelain. His hair was bleached to match. When you looked quickly, hair and flesh blended together. His eyes were pure white, no iris, no pupil. Some people imagined he was blind. He wore all white, except for the shiny black locket on a silver cord. He opened it now, dipped in his finger, and he succumbed to the sharp numbness.
Harper slid a key into her lock. She shoved hard, sick of the constant hassle of living in a rundown apartment building. She shivered when she walked in, the air felt like ice. She saw him there, his blank eyes gazing at her ceiling. Harper dropped her bag, and lay down beside him, stroking his arm.
“Hello Stain.” Her voice reminded him of a dead forest, its trees sold for lumber, empty and dead.
“Hello, Harper, my slamming black winged vixen.” He gently ran his fingers through her choppy hair. He breathed ice on her pale neck.
She shivered. She was his vixen, his black-hearted bitter film noir whore. He’d brought her into this crazy world. He’d brought here, here into this glass and steel humanity. He’d introduced her to men who screamed into microphones, bearing their pain into the world. He’d bought her beers in tiny smoky clubs where people howl and slam around. He showed her a world with boys who were girls who loved girls who were boys and who all had sex on clouds of opiates while high on LSD to make their tiny dingy apartments with the empty cupboards float away into swirling piles of color. Harper was drawn like a moth to this flame, even though it singed her wings.
His fingers touched her ankle, trembling the bells suspended there. The pealed, and she cringed.
“I love the sound of my work,” Stain murmured in her ear. His words chilled her even more then his breath. For the bracelet was his. He had birthed it from his breath. Sometimes she imagined he had birthed her like this as well. For he was a creator, he created beautiful things, treacherous things, anklets strung with millions of bells. Bells that changed and molded and bound with every peal. When Stain had met, had found, or perhaps had created Harper, she wasn’t his blond vixen. She was a brunette. Her eyes weren’t saucers of gin but sparkling diamonds. She wasn’t 5’1 tall then, but she was 3 inches tall. Harper Fae was Sunbeam Stardust. She lived in a rose, she bathed in raindrops, and she lived on nectar and pollen. She remembered wings. Or did she imagine them? Beautiful indescribable star touched sun bathed moon drenched iridescent glowing wings. Wings that carried her here, and there, in and out, over everything through walls in trees, into the clouds. She traded them for the man in white who played his tune so seductively. Who rang his bells to bind her body. To make her grow, to lose her wings, to give her a chance to live within his razzle dazzle world. To live with him. She gave up the knowledge of the language of the wind and the trees in order to walk amongst the giants and speak the language of men. Of course he bought her flowers, and gossamer dresses, and shining gems, and she pretended it was enough.
~*~
Tomorrow everything will be better.
My father bought me a purple crystal cross. I'm quite confused as to why. Perhaps he thinks he can return his daughter to a state of catholic purity, yes ma'am, no sir, can I be your perfect little girl? Sadly I'm not. I sit here and read erotica till I feel like I'm on fire. My throat burns, My whole body feels raw. But I wouldn't trade, I prefer to burn up then lay still and frozen.
Her echo remained long after she left. It wove through the air like perfume. At first a seductive tinkle, it wrapped around you, so slight you hardly noticed. But it followed you. Eventually, it became a sharp jangle. It built to a harsher, biting sound. Soon it morphed into a discordant painful clash. So slight it was hardly noticeable yet so pervasive it was impossible to ignore.
She wasn’t particularly distinctive within the slam and glam world of concrete trees and cement rivers. She seemed merely a short girl, with bleach blond hair and glamorous eyes. In fact, she was much shorter than she appeared, with deep brunette hair, but the eyes were her own. They were never the same color, shifting like pools of iridescent mercury. When she cried, they were twin sauces of gin that softened the harsh edges of the world. When she was angry, they flashed like shards of jasper. When she used to smile, they had held the summer sky. Today they were merely reflecting the deep amber of the beer that she grasped tightly.
Manhattan’s streets were here temple she was their priestess. She paid homage to the gods and goddesses, the women in their leather and lace, the men in their boots and tattoos, the artists, the angry young men screaming and diving off the stage, the local drunks and general riffraff. She drifted around, chain smoking and spitting. She wore tight skirts and mammoth boots, with huge sunglasses that hid the bruises within her eyes. She seemed almost ethereal, lost in a haze of silk and glitter and smoke.
It seemed the only thing that was constant were the drugs. The first time he asked her to smoke opium, she was entranced by the exotic name. She laughed later, when she realized what it was. Remembering how, before, they used to sneak off and smoke poppies too. She loved the dreams. She loved how the smoke turned to knives in her chest, how it sliced through her mind, creating twisted images, nightmares that thrilled her. But he would never hold her hand, like they used to, before. See it was different here. Before drugs were different. She she and her parents used to pass joints around the kitchen table, letting the tales spin out with the smoke. Now she didn’t feel as if she was breathing out stories, but that she was breathing out herself with every puff of smoke.
Harper wandered, clutching her cigarette so tightly that her knuckles were white. Always the gentle bells, a cacophonous din slamming in her brain. Sometimes she imagined unclasping the silver chain around her ankle, imagined letting the chain fall off onto to the sidewalk and leaving it there, all of its binding and sealing magic to seep away, away from her.
~*~
Harper was fascinated by wings. Her room was painted with them, birds and butterflies and dragonflies and even airplanes. Mobiles floated in the dust, floated in the thick blue cloud of smoke that constantly hovered. A man lay on the mattress that lay on the carpet that lay on the cold tile. He was pure white. His skin seemed porcelain. His hair was bleached to match. When you looked quickly, hair and flesh blended together. His eyes were pure white, no iris, no pupil. Some people imagined he was blind. He wore all white, except for the shiny black locket on a silver cord. He opened it now, dipped in his finger, and he succumbed to the sharp numbness.
Harper slid a key into her lock. She shoved hard, sick of the constant hassle of living in a rundown apartment building. She shivered when she walked in, the air felt like ice. She saw him there, his blank eyes gazing at her ceiling. Harper dropped her bag, and lay down beside him, stroking his arm.
“Hello Stain.” Her voice reminded him of a dead forest, its trees sold for lumber, empty and dead.
“Hello, Harper, my slamming black winged vixen.” He gently ran his fingers through her choppy hair. He breathed ice on her pale neck.
She shivered. She was his vixen, his black-hearted bitter film noir whore. He’d brought her into this crazy world. He’d brought here, here into this glass and steel humanity. He’d introduced her to men who screamed into microphones, bearing their pain into the world. He’d bought her beers in tiny smoky clubs where people howl and slam around. He showed her a world with boys who were girls who loved girls who were boys and who all had sex on clouds of opiates while high on LSD to make their tiny dingy apartments with the empty cupboards float away into swirling piles of color. Harper was drawn like a moth to this flame, even though it singed her wings.
His fingers touched her ankle, trembling the bells suspended there. The pealed, and she cringed.
“I love the sound of my work,” Stain murmured in her ear. His words chilled her even more then his breath. For the bracelet was his. He had birthed it from his breath. Sometimes she imagined he had birthed her like this as well. For he was a creator, he created beautiful things, treacherous things, anklets strung with millions of bells. Bells that changed and molded and bound with every peal. When Stain had met, had found, or perhaps had created Harper, she wasn’t his blond vixen. She was a brunette. Her eyes weren’t saucers of gin but sparkling diamonds. She wasn’t 5’1 tall then, but she was 3 inches tall. Harper Fae was Sunbeam Stardust. She lived in a rose, she bathed in raindrops, and she lived on nectar and pollen. She remembered wings. Or did she imagine them? Beautiful indescribable star touched sun bathed moon drenched iridescent glowing wings. Wings that carried her here, and there, in and out, over everything through walls in trees, into the clouds. She traded them for the man in white who played his tune so seductively. Who rang his bells to bind her body. To make her grow, to lose her wings, to give her a chance to live within his razzle dazzle world. To live with him. She gave up the knowledge of the language of the wind and the trees in order to walk amongst the giants and speak the language of men. Of course he bought her flowers, and gossamer dresses, and shining gems, and she pretended it was enough.
~*~
Tomorrow everything will be better.
My father bought me a purple crystal cross. I'm quite confused as to why. Perhaps he thinks he can return his daughter to a state of catholic purity, yes ma'am, no sir, can I be your perfect little girl? Sadly I'm not. I sit here and read erotica till I feel like I'm on fire. My throat burns, My whole body feels raw. But I wouldn't trade, I prefer to burn up then lay still and frozen.